The Unauthorized Autobiography of Me

Okay, this is based off of The Unauthorized Autobiography of Me by Sherman Alexie. Still rough.

--

The silent girl in the back of the class. The child always forgotten. The artsy one. The profound one. The mestiza. The book worm. The learner. The smiley one. The strange one. The photographer. The loud one. The angry thing. The waterworks. The liar. The flirt. The girl at the front of the class. Black hair. Dark eyes. Cold hands. Warm heart. Me.

*

I sit in front of the cousin that I have not seen for eleven years. She looks the same. "Happa sisters!" Half breeds, she tells me.

My heritage traces back to the Philippines through my mother. I'm Filipino.

"Hey! Philippinean, right?" "No. Filipino. We speak Tagalog." "Tag a log?" "No." "So you're not a Jalapeño?"

Second Grade:

Long, dark brown, almost black hair and a warm skin tone to match. "Cece!" Says a voice right behind me. A head looks up on the other side of the classroom. "Yeah?" Oh. Sorry. Wrong person.

Dodgeball. The flying colors abruptly stop midair, interrupted by faces, and drop to the ground. The redhead on the floor with a face color to match the hair stood up. Sarah was furious. "GOD! Would you just go back to where you came from! Go back to China!"

*

Third Grade:

"Momma! This is my friend," recites Louisa Persons, the girl next to me holding my hand. Her frizzy hair poufs out and touches my own as we stand next to each other. We are friends now.

"Hi, Mrs. Persons. I'm Arietta Marie Chabot!"

"Chabot, huh?"

Turns out, Mrs. Persons and my mother were friends when pregnant with us.

Now she and I are sisters.

*

Years pass, and Louisa and I had to grow up fast. They fought. We cried. They yelled. We still hide. Together, however, we withstood it all. Drifting through a fog that starts every morning. Six years.

Midnight calls to each other were a comfort and soon, we exchanged standings. High schoolers now, and despite our looks, you'd think we swapped lives.

*

Changes through the years:

Music

Art styles

Favourite scents

Classes

Learning styles

Memories that stand out

The things I notice

Tolerance

Holidays

Bedrooms

Houses

Patience

People

Constants:

Book escapes

Barnes and Noble

The need to write

The want to draw

Sweaters

Tea

Crayons

Finger-painting

Cultures

Rainy outings

Trees

Singing off-key

Stars

People

*

Summer 2012

There are rows and rows of people ahead of me, and the stage is so far away. My aisle is so dark I cannot see Nick's face in front of me. We rise with the house. The music, so loud with a bass that resonated in our chests, vibrating even our teeth. The singing was raucous, pitchy, and on edge, and the dancing rocked the whole room. The music dropped its beat, and then we were on our knees crying. Different reasons, I remember. The absent hand on his shoulder, only his hand on mine.

There was no infinity stretching out before me because I couldn't feel what they did. I was different. No warmth. A piece of bread on a stage. No welcome. A gold monstrance set against a purple backlight. No love. Not there at least.

Summer 2014

There are a couple rows of people behind me, and I am touching the stage in front of me. The stage lights up my face and David's upward turned face next to me. We are already standing, the music loud enough to drown out the negative connotations of previous religious encounters. The singing was filled with lives, and the dancing rocked the whole room. There were no tears.

Out stretched hands took away a guilt I was baptized into and something changed. I can feel it. Difference in heart and mind. I can feel it.

*

Hopes:

to Live off of art

to Learn

to Have a loving family

to Understand

to Be trusted

to Have a home

to Know I've changed a life

to Love others

to Be happy

Reality:

Standardized Test: "What do you identify yourself as?" Caucasian. Pacific Islander. Anything but Asian.

      Years before:

            "Stupid, Asian bitch, you're nothing."

Walking down the hall, a tangible rot emanates from his room. Gagging, I run past as the memories threaten to chase me through the house.

      Years before:

            Her screams are nothing compared to the whimpers coming from my sisters as I pulled them from the hall into the corner of the living room. I look back and see hands gripping the door frame. Pushing them into theroom and covering their ears, CRACK. The hands and half the door frame are gone.

She stands in the middle of the road. "Hit me! Do it, you bastard! I DARE you." She doesn't see me in the back seat.

      Years before:

            I stand in the middle of the road, bag in hand, purple jacket tied around my waist, and red dinosaur coat tied at my chin. Running. Fall. Land on my knees, and somewhere in a child's mind, I knew I was done running. I stopped, sitting in the middle of the road right after a turn, gravel cutting my knees. Her headlights around the corner. Bright and blinding. Hit me. I dare you.

I read. In the past twenty days, three thousand two hundred forty pages. At least. Escape is wonderful, full of stories and hope for a new life.

      Years before:

           "'Mama? Do you love me?' 'Yes, I do, Dear One...' 'What if I ran away? Then I would be worried.'" Mum? Do you love me? "I will love you, forever and for always, because you are my Dear One."

*

The summers are hot, the autumns crisp, the winters cold, and the springs windy. Two seasons mostly, with orange and green transitions. The Chinook wind, my favourite, welcomes the spring as it blows away the last chills of winter. It thaws the ice unfailingly.